Desperation
by Masako Moonshade
Summary: Spoilers for 2x3. Sherlock comes to her when even he has to admit he's scared. This time she can be brave for him.


_Warnings: sex, spoilers for 2x3_

_AN: This is a weird one for me. I'm not the type to write this sort of thing. This is my first Sherlock fic. I don't even ship this pairing— I think that Molly needs someone who will treat her right (which he won't) and Sherlock needs someone who will stand up to him and not take his social stupidity to heart (which she can't— not full-time, anyway). Long term, it would never work. That said, when I was watching the scene in question in 2x3, I was seriously expecting the next scene to be… well, this. _

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><p>"You're wrong, you know." His voice in the dark scares the daylights out of her, makes her drop everything like leaves in the fall.<p>

"You do count. You've always counted and I've always trusted you." In his voice there's emotion that shouldn't be there. It's too thick, too sad, too cracked at the edges to be her Sherlock Holmes.

"But you were right." And then he looks at her, more honest than he's ever been, and that terrifies her more than hearing him concede. "I'm not okay."

"Tell me what's wrong." The command tumbles out of her mouth all at once, but she doesn't let herself back down. She didn't let herself stumble when Dad died, and she's not going to break now.

He swallows, and the muscles in his jaw work furiously. "Molly, I think I'm going to die."

It hits her like a bullet to the head, but she's used to that (she likes to think) and she won't break his stare. "What do you need?"

"I wasn't everything that you think I am—everything that I think I am—but you still want to help me." He is afraid, she can see it in his eyes. That's why she has to stand taller. Be braver. Otherwise the world will go entirely dark and swallow them both inside.

"What do you need?"

He steps closer. His stare burns her to cinders. She would have a hard time breathing, but she's pretty sure her lungs turned to charcoal about ten seconds ago. When he speaks, his voice is low and rough, a single request: "You."

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><p><p>

The plan is as meticulous as it is rushed. Molly thinks she might have a hard time understanding him, if she hadn't already had years of practice listening to his breakneck rambling. She keeps notes, though—vague enough that they'll be useless if they're found, in a paper that she'll tear into shreds and burn before the night is through.

Painkillers—enough to keep him from moving out of agony, but not enough to make him delirious. Sedatives to slow his pulse. A few packets of donated blood. Small air-filled cushions to line his coat and protect his spine—they won't do much, but it's better than nothing at all.

His plan is ludicrous, of course, but he assures her it's only a last resort. He's clever; he's sure to find a better way.

But if he doesn't—and for the first time, he really is scared he'll fail—she can give him a chance. Not a sure thing, but it's a chance he didn't have before.

What he's asking of her is beyond illegal, but the thought of refusing doesn't even cross her mind. He's desperate—she can see it in the slump of his shoulders, the twitch of his eyes, the roughness in his voice—and all Molly wants to do anymore is give him milk and cookies and hug him and tell him it'll be all right in the end.

Except that it won't, and they both know it.

Maybe that's what makes her step in the way of his mad pacing as he marches a groove into the hospital floor. Maybe that's what makes her grip his shoulders and stare into his eyes until he has no choice but to stare back.

Maybe that's what makes her kiss him. And after a moment's hesitation (he always was slow on the uptake with these things), maybe that's what makes him kiss her back.

He tastes like copper and sugared tea, slightly bitter from a long-past cigarette.

He grabs onto her, holds her like a life raft, every ounce of desperation vibrating in his fingertips as they dig into her sides. She stays strong for him, holds him up when it feels like he's going to collapse, when he kisses her hard enough to bruise.

Somewhere along the way he backed her into a wall, and after that (before?) she started tearing at his shirt front, and suddenly they're on top of something soft and flat and she doesn't even care to wonder where.

The rubber is hers (what kind of headlines would it make if she wound up pregnant?) and she has to help him put it on. For a second the warmth of cookies-and-hugs suffuses every inch of her, seeing him like this, so childlike and confused about the whole prospect.

But he's no child. And he makes sure she doesn't forget it.

His hands explore her body, his eyes rove, and all the while he's taking notes—as careful and thorough as any detective work. His eyes cloud over in the heat of racing thought, and he moves faster, more desperately, drinking in every detail with his hands.

Once he's learned the keys of her body, he plays her like his violin—a melody of touches and whispers and angles that drenches her in fire and light. Seamlessly he blends mounting tension with southing caresses, never lingering in any sensation long enough for her to grow accustomed to it. Every new note of pleasure winds her tighter, and she's about to snap.

She tries to watch his mind race as he deduces and composes, but her eyes keep rolling back in her head, her back keeps arching into whatever-the-hell-it-is that they're lying on, and she kisses him until she can hear her own whispers-moans-screams resonate in his mouth.

All at once the world erupts into light and color and sound, like an explosion without the pain, and all she can think to do is grab him tight and never let go. She feels the spasm of his body as his own climax follows soon after, but she doesn't let him go. Nor when he collapses on top of her. Or when he buries his head in her shoulder and his curly hair tickles her cheek. Not even when his own too-clever mind has overcome the afterglow and his silent sobs shake them both.

She releases him to reclaim his clothes, but even then she hasn't entirely let him go. He pauses at the door and glances back at her, his eyes clear and calm and resigned.

The shaking has gone almost entirely. If he's lucky, he might even be able to sleep tonight. The decision is made, the cement already setting in his mind.

Molly tries to memorize him, construct a little mind palace of her own around this moment, even if it's just a shed.

Because no matter what the day brings, the next time she'll see him, he'll be in a body bag.


End file.
